


let them eat chips

by missandrogyny



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Flirting, M/M, this is embarrassing don't look at me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-08
Updated: 2014-09-08
Packaged: 2018-02-16 15:28:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2274942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missandrogyny/pseuds/missandrogyny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Grantaire wanted was a bag of chips.</p>
            </blockquote>





	let them eat chips

**Author's Note:**

> This was heavily inspired by one of the prompts on the "AUs I really want" posts going around on tumblr, which is: "tried to get the candy bar that didn’t drop out of the vending machine and now my hand is stuck can u help me out" au
> 
> i'm on a roll, please don't judge me. :( i'll stop soon i promise.

Grantaire has two euros left in his pocket, and he’s hungry.

He might also be a little drunk (okay, he’s _a lot_ drunk), but he figures it’s not that hard, going down to the lobby of Joly and Bossuet’s apartment and buying some chips. There are vending machines there, which are open all night, and a bag of chips, albeit small, will be enough to make his stomach stop rumbling and let him go to sleep.

He devises a plan:

Phase One: Sneak out of Joly and Bossuet’s apartment without alerting anybody inside.

Phase Two: Acquire the chips.

Phase Three: Eat the chips.

Phase Four: Return to Joly and Bossuet’s apartment without alerting anybody inside.

He can do this.

He sneaks out of Joly and Bossuet’s apartment (they’re asleep; Bahorel and Feuilly are still up playing a really intense card game, and Grantaire doesn’t want them to know that he’s going out ‘cause they’ll end up stealing his chips. Granted, they’re not his chips yet, but semantics.) and makes his way down the elevator, to the lobby, all while humming the Mission Impossible Tune under his breath.

Phase One Complete.

He pulls out his wallet the instant he stands in front of the vending machine, meticulously counting his two euros, making sure that it’s all there and that Bahorel didn’t steal it while he was busy with his bottle of vodka. When he’s satisfied, he punches in the numbers for the bag of chips, slides the money into the machine, and waits.

He watches as the metal holding it retracts, and he’s giddy with excitement, watching the chips fall. He can almost taste its saltiness on his tongue, and his stomach rumbles in thought, and it falls down, down down—

Until it gets stuck on the first row.

Phase Two not complete.

He bangs his hand against the glass of the vending machine, watching as the bag of chips sway precariously, hoping, praying that they would fall. He does it again and again, but the bag of chips seem to want to defy him, to defy gravity, and stays stubbornly in its place.

As a last resort, he drops down on the carpet, sticks his right hand inside the hole of the vending machine and reaches up, up, up, up, up until his fingers brush the jagged edge of the packaging. He lets out a sound of triumph and tries to manoeuvre his fingers into grabbing it, but it’s difficult, with the metal of the vending machine digging into his forearm. His arm isn’t long enough.

He sighs and decides to try again, to pull his hand out for a few moments before jamming it inside once more in another desperate attempt to get his chips. He tries to dislodge his hand, and pulls.

It doesn’t budge.

He does it three times, but his hand doesn’t come out of the vending machine. It slowly dawns on Grantaire that he’s stuck in this vending machine, hungry and drunk, his bag of chips barely in his reach.

Phase Two has been shot to hell.

He wiggles around, trying to dislodge his arm (and hopefully his bag of chips), but there’s no escape from the clutches of the evil vending machine.

This is how his life will end. Starving to death with his hand stuck in a vending machine.

Well, he decides, it’s better than the path he was going, at any rate.

He’s just resigned himself to his fate (and to his hunger) and decided to use his left hand to call Bahorel with his phone, when he sees a blonde man appear in his blurry vision.

Grantaire hopes it’s not hallucination, or an angel sent to him by God. He doesn’t believe in God, see, and if God really did exist, and sent an angel to pick Grantaire up to his death, he doesn’t really know what he’d do. He hasn’t thought about it yet.

Anyway, he takes his chances.

“Hey,” he says clearly (or hopes he says it clearly, he can’t really tell), “Blonde Angel over there.”

The man stops and turns to him. “Are you talking to me?” He asks in a clear, strong voice, and Grantaire sighs just a little bit.

“Yeah, blonde angel equals you.” He says smugly. “You’re blonde.”

The man crosses his arms. “I’d appreciate it if, you didn’t call me angel,” he says. “My name is Enjolras.”

“Ange-olras,” Grantaire says mock-innocently, before collapsing into a fit of giggling. “Okay, Ange-olras.”

Enjolras sighs, looking so incredibly frustrated, and Grantaire can’t help it, he starts laughing again. “Hey Ange,” he says. “Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?”

“Are you drunk?” Enjolras asks, and when Grantaire just keeps laughing, he sighs. “Okay, I’m leaving.”

“No,” Grantaire says, trying to control his giggles. “No, wait please. I’ll stop, I promise. Just please, help me out here?”

He tries to make his best puppy dog eyes at Enjolras, who just sighs again, but stops walking. “What’s wrong?”

Grantaire raises an eyebrow and uses his left hand to gesture at himself, and he notices Enjolras’ eyes widen as he takes in Grantaire’s predicament.

“You’re…stuck?” He ventures, sounding unsure. “Inside?”

“Well, I’m not inside, per se,” Grantaire says musingly. “It actually depends on your definition of ‘inside’.  For instance, I am not stuck inside the vending machine, my right arm _is_. But I am, indeed stuck inside this horrible apartment building, even though I don’t want to be. I’m not stuck inside you, see, but I would love to be, if you would let me and if I can get out of this position in which my arm—“ he wriggles it around, “—is stuck in, and we could retire onto your bed and see where else I can stick my hand in.”

Enjolras flushes. Grantaire, in his alcohol-addled state, thinks it looks pretty. “Could you be any cruder?”

“Oh, Ange,” Grantaire says, wagging his eyebrows. “Just watch me.”

Enjolras makes to leave again.

“No, okay, I’m sorry,” Grantaire says, scrambling. “I didn’t mean to be that crude, please help me, my arm is cramping.”

Enjolras stops again, takes one look at Grantaire’s (pathetic) position on the floor, and sighs. “Fine.”

“You’re an angel,” Grantaire swears, but stops at Enjolras’ pointed glare. “Okay, no more with the angel jokes.”

“Have you tried wriggling your arm around?” Enjolras suggest, crouching down and inspecting the hole.

“No, Sherlock, I haven’t done that,” Grantaire says sarcastically, and Enjolras shoots him another glare.

Right. He has to remember that Enjolras is here to help, and help him complete his wayward mission to get some chips. Enjolras leans forward even further, trying to look at the hole from a different angle, and he’s suddenly so close that Grantaire can feel his blonde hair tickling his cheek, can see the shadows of his eyelashes, can count the freckles on his nose.

He tries to remember, tries to will his alcohol-soaked brain to capture this moment, because when is he ever going to get this opportunity, _a beautiful man so very close to him_ , ever again?

“Maybe you should stick your hand in,” Grantaire suggest, and Enjolras looks up at him. He seems to notice their proximity, because he scoots back a bit, looking incredibly surprised and unfocused.

“What?” Enjolras says, blinking up at him, flushing slowly, and _oh_ , how Grantaire wants to remember the sight.

“Stick your hand in the vending machine,” Grantaire clarifies. “Then maybe dislodge my hand from within?”

“How would I do that?”

“Trust me, I have a plan.”

Enjolras looks unsure, but squeezes his hand into the space in the vending machine beside Grantaire. He reaches up, up, up, until their fingers brush and Grantaire can feel sparks fly.

“This is not a very comfortable position,” Enjolras says, wriggling his arm around, and accidentally pushing Grantaire with his body.

“Oh wow, I _really_ didn't know that,” Grantaire says sarcastically, pushing back against Enjolras, fighting for space.

Enjolras takes a deep breath. “Okay, now what?”

Grantaire is silent.

“What do I do now?” Enjolras asks, still wriggling his hand inside. Their fingers tangle, and Grantaire wants to see it, his short, stout fingers contrasting with Enjolras’ long ones, _but they’re currently stuck inside a vending machine_.

Enjolras nudges him.

“I don’t know…?” Grantaire says meekly, and Enjolras freezes.

“What do you mean, ‘you don’t know’?” Enjolras says, voice deadly calm. “You told me you had a plan.”

“That, uh,” Grantaire uses his left hand to scratch the back of his head. “That might’ve…been an excuse to hold your hand?”

The glare Enjolras shoots him is murderous.

“I’m sorry?” Grantaire offers, because, fuck starving to death with his hand stuck in a vending machine, Enjolras is probably going to kill him with the force of his glare.

“I swear to God,” Enjolras says, voice still calm, eyes radiating anger, “if this is some sort of elaborate prank or pick up line—“

“No, it’s not,” Grantaire interrupts, wriggling around. “I swear, I was hungry, I had two euros, my bag of chips didn’t fall and I got stuck trying to get them.”

Grantaire starts to tear up. That’s probably not one of his finest moments.

Enjolras looks at him in horror.

“Oh my God, are you _crying_?”

“No,” Grantaire lies, sniffling. “I think I might be allergic to you.”

Enjolras uses his left hand to awkwardly pat him on the head, and Grantaire drunkenly leans into the touch.

“Okay,” Enjolras says. “I’m going to text my neighbor to help us out.”

He slides his left hand into his pocket and drops his phone onto the carpeted floor.

“…You’re not very left-handed, are you?” Grantaire asks when Enjolras manages to drop his phone about three times and awkwardly text. “Here, let me do it.”

Enjolras hands him the phone, and Grantaire, with a skill borne from years of drunk texting, manages to open the messaging application.

“I’m ambidextrous,” he says, in explanation—Enjolras was wearing an expression of shock. “Now, who am I texting?”

“Combeferre,” Enjolras says, and spells it out for Grantaire to follow. Grantaire manages to text a ‘ _help, I’m stuck in the vending machine in the lobby_ ’ before returning it to Enjolras, who quite clumsily, puts it back in his pocket.

“Now, we wait.”

They sit in silence for a while, their arms cramping. Enjolras seems content to simply sit, but Grantaire is still kind of drunk, so he turns to Enjolras.

“So, Enjolras. What do you do?”

“I’m a student over at the university,” is his curt reply, trying to cut short the conversation. Grantaire isn’t deterred.

“What are you taking?”

“I’m a Political Science Major." He hesitates, but seems to think the better of it. "And I do some activism on the side.”

Grantaire lets out a low whistle. “One of those save-the-world types, eh? Well, good luck with that.” He says it dismissively, hoping Enjolras will let it slide. However, he isn’t that lucky.

“What do you mean by that?” Enjolras asks, turning to him, his blue eyes flashing.

Grantaire shrugs. “I mean, it’s practically useless trying to save the world. It’s fucked up and broken. But I have to give you points for effort, though.”

“What do you mean it’s useless?” Enjolras asks, voice rising.

“I mean, history repeats itself over and over. Maybe once in a blue moon, you’re able to overthrow the corrupt politicians and give power to the people, but that’s only for a bit. Soon, those people will let the power get to their heads as well, and they’ll start stealing, start oppressing, and the cycle goes on again and again. So it’s useless, especially seeing as we’ll probably die, stuck in this stupid vending machine.”

“One,” Enjolras says, his voice taking on a stronger, deeper angrier cadence (and to be honest, Grantaire can’t help but get pulled in), “People can are inherently good. That means they can be taught, taught to be just, taught not to corrupt and to use the power for good. I may not have faith in the government now, but I have ultimate faith in the people and their goodness, and I know that in the end, they’ll do the right thing. And two, we are _not_ going to die stuck in this vending machine.”

Grantaire snorts. “You say that now, but when you’re off playing martyr to a cause that people don’t seem to care about, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Enjolras is silent for a while, mulling those words over. “Come to our meetings, over at the café Musain, then. Give me a chance to change your mind.”

Grantaire looks at him, at his earnest face and the passion blazing in his eyes, and he’s hit by the thought that if anyone could, maybe this guy, who’s stuck in a vending machine with him, might be able to do it.

“One meeting,” Grantaire relents. “If we manage to get out of this stupid thing alive, and if I don’t starve to death first.” He glares at the bag of chips still balancing precariously at the first row. “I hate you,” he says to it morosely, and Enjolras snorts in laughter. “Those were my last two euros.”

Enjolras looks at him, and bites his lip. “I am pretty hungry, too,” he admits. “I haven’t eaten since lunchtime.”

“If we ever get out of this alive, do you want to maybe not starve to death together afterwards? I can’t promise you I’m not going to eat you, though.”

Enjolras throws his head back and laughs, and it’s a beautiful sound. Grantaire just sort of wishes he weren’t so drunk so that he could enjoy this.

“Seriously though, you look delectable,” he says instead, because he’s an idiot. Enjolras flushes again, the tips of his ears turning very red. “I bet you taste like a scrumptious chocolate cake. I want to find out.”

Enjolras bites his lip. “Is this you asking me out on a date? I’m sorry to break it to you, but I don’t even know your name.”

“My friends call me R. But you can call me…tonight.”

There’s a pause.

“That would probably have worked better if we weren’t stuck in a vending machine,” Grantaire says, using his left hand to tap against the glass. “And if I could suavely slide you my number. Alas, poor Yorrick, the stars did not dare to smile down upon us and our tragic love story. Death by machine. Sooner or later, the machines will take over the human race, and they will kill us all, one by one. We will be remembered as their first victims, perished bravely in the hands of the enemy—“

“What’s going on here?” A voice interrupts, and two men suddenly appear right in front of them.

“Combeferre,” Enjolras says, wriggling around. “I was helping R get his bag of chips, but then we got stuck.”

The bespectacled man—Combeferre, probably—squints down at them. “Yes, I can see that.”

“Hey,” the other man says. “I know you! You’re Joly and Bossuet’s artist friend, right? Grantaire?”

Grantaire stares at him, and it takes him a moment to place where he’s seen that face before. “Courfeyrac, right? Joly introduced us before. They’ve been trying to get me to come to your activist group meetings.”

Courfeyrac laughs, and gestures to them. “And I see you’ve met our fearless leader, Enjolras. He runs the whole thing. And you should really come to them, they’re fun.”

“He already promised,” Enjolras interrupts, before Grantaire can say anything. “He’s promised to come to one meeting.” Enjolras turns to him, eyebrow raised as if daring him to argue, before turning back to Courfeyrac. “Now, please help us out.”

Combeferre hands Enjolras a bottle of baby oil, which Enjolras immediately passes onto Grantaire. Grantaire uses his left hand to squeeze liberal amounts of it into his right hand, and it takes forever until Grantaire gets his hand free.

Enjolras’ hand comes out soon after that, and they stand, flexing their arm and rolling their shoulders. Grantaire has never been happier to have full control of his right arm.

He’s also saddened to have lost his last two euros to a fucking bag of chips.

When he turns around, Enjolras is watching him, looking nervous. Combeferre and Courfeyrac are no longer to be seen.

“So, I believe you promised me something about not starving to death if we get out of this alive?” Enjolras says tentatively.

“I would, Ange,” and he says that only to see Enjolras shoot him an annoyed look, “But those were my last two euros.”

“You can come back to my apartment,” Enjolras offers. “I’ll buy you dinner. We can order Chinese.”

Grantaire takes one last, longing look at the bag of chips still stuck in the vending machine.

“Besides,” Enjolras says softly, so softly, that Grantaire has to strain to hear it, “I’ll even let you try me, if you want.”

They don’t make it to the apartment fast enough.

**Author's Note:**

> i don't really know the exchange rate of euros, nor do i know how much euros are needed in a vending machine, seeing as i'm not really european. or american. so sorry if it's wrong!


End file.
